Covenant
by Cornix
Summary: Godfrey, at Messina, on the subject of unfinished business.


Author's Notes: Still movieverse, for what it's worth – for once nobody actually appearing in this story is based on a real person! Wildly speculative. If there is any material about Godfrey's career post-France and pre-Jerusalem I missed it. My theory is that he may have been intended for the Church by his family, and at some point decided otherwise. It would explain a few things about him, including the fact that he had the qualifications to be a royal tutor.

Rated T for pretty adult themes and implied character death.

Godfrey, at Messina, on the subject of unfinished business.

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**Covenant**

My lord –

You ready there with your writing gear? Don't know if _I_ am ready. Don't even know how to begin. Let me collect my thoughts... How much time do I have? Not much? That's what I thought. I started this too late. As usual.

I owe you an explanation, my lord. You asked me to take care of myself, and now... But you see, I set out upon this road before you were even born. Not that long ago, come to think of it. Remember that story – the three living and the three dead? We sat over that book together, years back. Three hideously decaying, shrouded bodies confronting three fine young noblemen: _This is what you will be_. You looked at it dispassionately, not a muscle twitching in your face. You had a face then. Two hands and thick fair hair and a face that was so calm that moment that it frightened me. And then you turned the page, still calmly, and resumed your reading... But that's neither here nor there. Where was I?

Ah, yes. _Quod sumus, hoc eritis_. It haunted me, you know. That I would go leaving nothing, nothing of myself. That I would die a lonely old man, surrounded by might-have-beens. It may have been a foolish thing I did. Return, and get myself shot by my brother's ruffians for my trouble – stupid, stupid business. If I'd left well alone... But I couldn't, my dear boy, and that I can't explain to you, 'cause you are young, and you'll never be old enough for those kinds of regrets... No, don't write that. No point in writing that...

Help me with that water again, if you will. I'm thirsty.

My lord, you know why I left France. I had no intention of telling you, at first. You were a child, and these were things beyond a child's understanding, and besides it was nobody's business but my own. I had left for a reason, and done many things, and found myself a new world at last. I wasn't going to sully that new life with too many ugly memories of the old one, or so I thought.

Well. It didn't work that way. I learned that soon enough. We are what our memories make us. It would have come out even without your persistent curiosity. Your father's questions I could have dealt with – he only ever asked as much as he needed to know. But there was my confessor here, confound his nosiness, and then there was Tiberias, distrusting me and not bothering to hide the fact. What it came to was that I hadn't left my old life behind after all.

Wasn't that what that fiery, wily old priest sent us out for, a hundred years ago? Killing heathens so the likes of me would stop killing each other? Well, I have done that. I have repaid that long-dead pontiff's hopes I think. I didn't kill my brother, or any of his neighbors. I took my hatred abroad, and killed some men who may have been better men than they. I'll never know. – You writing, Hospitaller?

Listen to that – _I am writing, my lord._ Being formal. He never calls me that unless he's making a point, or there's people listening. Are we having an audience? God, I hope not...

The best I can say for myself? That I was tired of it before ever I stumbled upon this life I was offered. I hadn't left to find, only to lose. But there it was. I might still turn this wasted life to good, perhaps. Don't know what made me acceptable, to be honest. Yes, I was from France. But so were many others. And yes, I had a smattering of scholarship. But so did many others. I'd traveled, of course – but then again, so had many others. God knows.

I took that offer, wondering what He wanted with me. I did my damnedest to become the man I had to be. Tutor to the King's only son. And that's how I found you.

You were my redemption. I doubt you know that. Damned if I tell you. Your opinion of yourself is good enough as it is, my lord. But God will have to forgive me quite a lot because you loved me. – Don't write that, d'you hear me? – You never knew. The man I had been – that bitter, barren, unrepentant fool – I have a feeling that you might not have loved _him_.

But I had come too late, of course. As usual. If you saved me I didn't save you. Perhaps, if I had been there earlier to watch over you, been offered that post earlier and taken it, instead of killing good men to no good purpose... things might have been different. Or not. I'll never know.

God gives and takes, but never without a purpose. I knew. I had thrown away before, and now...

It seemed only just, to have you taken from me. I could not blame Him for what He did to me. I could blame Him for what He did to you. I did, and oh, I did. So little time.

From the day I discovered your withered arm to the day you finally had your hair cropped short – to make things easier for the physicians, you told me, head held high... it now seems only weeks. I know, I know; you wore the crown by then, you had led armies into battle, you no longer looked up so very far to meet my eyes, but still. Time seems to shrink when you look at it from where I am now. I knew then that I would outlive you by years. Your body was decaying even as your spirit soared. When you argued points in three languages, when you quoted the ancients back at me... well. There were times I was too close to tears to answer. Don't know if you noticed. Probably. And there were times when some demon whispered to me: Why do you bother? Think of the end...

You were building that kingdom of yours then. Building it knowing there wasn't time. And I... It had been my task to teach you about the world as I knew it, and then I stood and watched, and it was nothing like the world I had known... Did I teach you this? When, how? Or perhaps you considered it all and then decided – I don't know when – that you would have none of it, you would do things differently. Like a son. Like a king.

At least I had always known what God had entrusted to my care. I hadn't taken that task lightly. I did my best. But what I saw you become... if I had some small part in it...

I had done things I wasn't proud of even then, and these days they haunt my dreams, occasionally. But I have done one thing – one thing – God help me, that I'm proud of. I had a part in what you did. Don't know what part. Don't know how large. But when you built your kingdom I was there by your side.

Kingdom of conscience. Kingdom of heaven. Oh, it was heaven to me, and hell too.

D'you even hear what I am saying, monk? Come closer. This isn't news to you, is it? You were there too. Always, you were. I loved you dearly for it. I trust you'll still pray for my soul when I am done – where was I?

Your kingdom. Yes.

To think I found my peace there – some peace, at least. At the end of the world, the center of the world. To think... to think I helped. We've lived in peace for years now – years. More years than ever they gave you when that truce was made. Or at least, we try. I've helped to guard your peace, my lord, at Jerusalem and at Ibelin – let that stand as my epitaph.

Wish I could have remained at your side a little longer. But then... but then I will not have to see the end. Don't write that. There are others who will be. Stand by your throne, guard your Jerusalem with their lives and make good use of the time that's left.

Tiberias will watch over you. He has absolutely no sense of humor, of course, but if there's anybody in the world I trust with my King's life... well, you don't need me to tell you that. He's been there as well. And of course he'd be the first to point out that he knows his duties.

Wouldn't have minded seeing _him_ once more, either.

He said I was needed there. Duty again, y'see – he would. Forgive me. I always imagined myself dying in your service. But then perhaps that's what I am doing.

You see, I never could forget. God knows I tried. For a few years, perhaps, it worked. But seeing you grow up – my King, my pupil, my pride and joy – because you were, and you know it – and knowing what I knew... there were times when I looked at you and thought: He would be – let me see – he's about four years older than you are... if he still lives, he may be apprenticed somewhere now... almost a man, I wonder how he fares... Lord of Ibelin and tutor to the King of Jerusalem and my son, my natural son growing up an ignorant peasant. And I a baron, childless. And when I am dead, who will defend this kingdom that you built. Kingdom of conscience indeed. Oh, God, my conscience.

Too many debts. To you, for what you are to me. To him, for what he should have been. To your Jerusalem. And to God, for what He gifted me with, unearned and undeserved. I'd put it off too long. I had to go. Even if it means that I am dying far from Jerusalem... You writing, Hospitaller? You there? I cannot see you... Ah, yes. Stay.

Course I didn't know – he might have been dead, he might have been some graceless yokel – don't know what I would have done. _Don't expect too much_, was what Tiberias said. Cheerful as usual. But somehow I knew God would give me this too – a chance to make amends.

I should have done this earlier – but then perhaps I should not. Seems the time was right. I came when I was useful. I've been forgiven I think.

Ah, and to see those parts again – it's been so long, I had forgotten. The frosted glitter of those deep blue winter woods, the misty gleam of January sun on distant hills. Used to tell you about it, years back; I know, you always asked if you could go, one day. You'll never see it, of course. You could never see it even if your duties left you the time, and if you had the time left. It would kill you even quicker than Jerusalem will. It's a dirty place, my lord, too rough and dirty for you, and its people are the same – they'd believe your illness to be a punishment from on high, for one. But still, that place is beautiful. I had forgotten just how beautiful.

Didn't really see it back then. Back then I'd have taken your illness for the Lord's punishment too. I was a fool. And now I know that I could never have gone back... as if I hadn't known before. Ah, well. Old history. That was before your time...

I'm rambling. Hospitaller, make what you can of this. I know you're not writing. Nobody could.

So now old Ibelin has a son – you won't be too displeased to know Guy isn't pleased, at all. My house will stand. My heart's been lighter these last weeks. I'm dying, but the House of Ibelin will stand. To think that this is what came of that old indiscretion of mine – God rest her soul, she was a lovely girl, best thing about that dismal place by far, I never did forget her –

Well. I'm sending you my son. Balian of Ibelin, I like the sound of that. I'm tempted to say you deserve each other; he is awkward, aloof, pigheaded, opinionated in a silent way, in short, insufferable. Hasn't taken him long to win over my heart. Another thing I didn't expect – I was hoping for a man, for decency and honor, someone I would not be ashamed to call my heir, but I never hoped for this. For love. Another gift. Ah, I've been blessed.

And then I rather think that what he does, he does wholly, and where he loves he loves with all his heart. He will serve you as a baron of the realm, and serve you well, of that I have no doubt. But if you win his heart, well... somehow I think he might do great things for one he loves. Somehow, I think you will. Call it a father's partiality.

God bless you, my lord. God bless you, child. Wish I could have said that to you myself, properly, but it was not to be. I'm running out of time. There are still some things left for me to do – yes, yes, you'll fetch him in a moment, I'll last as long as that. Let me think. And give me some more water...

Give my love to Tiberias, Hospitaller, tell him I'll see him anon, old heathen that he is. God bless you too, the two of you. You watched over me during all these years; don't think I didn't know. Watch over him as well, d'you hear me? All I've been gifted with I leave in your care... just don't tell him I said that.

And now, I think... I think I'll see my son.

_--finis_

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Quod sumus, hoc eritis: _What we are you shall be_ – the dead pointing out to the living their eventual fate. It's the inscription briefly seen on the wall of the hall at Ibelin.


End file.
